Running on Empty
by EmilineHarris
Summary: Steve Randle's life has never been easy.
1. Long, Cold Winter

_Author's Note: So, I've never really been a big fan of Steve Randle. I'm not sure if it was because his character wasn't really that developed in the book, or if my hatred for Tom Cruise in the movie ruined it for me … Either way, I surprised myself when I felt the motivation to write a story with Steve as the main character. The main inspiration actually came from my other story, "Epiphany," when in the Steve-centric chapter, Dally remembers a particular afternoon where he and Steve ended up fighting in the Curtis' front yard. I thought it would be fun to elaborate on that single event and flesh it out into a full story, then the rest just sort of came to me along the way. I hope I don't screw this up! Anyway, please enjoy and let me know what you think every now and then!_

Disclaimer:I don't own _The Outsiders _(Though, damn! I wish I did) or the chapter title "Long, Cold Winter." They belong to S.E. Hinton and the band Cinderella, respectively.

* * *

Steve flipped up the collar on his jeans jacket and took a deep drag on his cigarette. The icy February wind picked up for a moment and swirled around him, carrying his smoke along with it and threatening to dislodge one of his meticulously coifed hairs. "God _damn_, it's cold out here," he muttered, holding his cigarette in one hand and stuffing the other into the pocket of his jacket for some momentary warmth. "Whose lame brain idea was this anyway?"

Sodapop Curtis, his best friend since he was about ten, looked back at him through eyes the color of dark chocolate and smirked. "I believe it was yours," he said nonchalantly, taking a slow puff from his own cigarette. "I ain't addicted enough to brave seventy below for a cancer stick."

Steve smirked back. "You're full of shit. You know damn well you talked me into joining you out here. I'm missing shop class for Christ's sake. It's the only one I'm getting a decent grade in."

Soda shrugged and leaned back against the brick wall behind them. "Then head on back. See if I care … "

Steve sighed and crouched down next to his friend. He held the cigarette between his frozen lips and shoved both hands into his pockets as he rest his back against the wall too. Maybe he'd remember to dig up some gloves from the basement if Soda was going to pull this sort of thing again. It was just like Soda, he thought, coming up with some great idea and not taking into consideration all the little details. That kid just didn't use his head sometimes.

While the day was by no means the coldest of the year, it certainly wasn't warm either. The Oklahoma landscape didn't have much in the way of peaks or valleys, and the flat land only let the wind travel along unimpeded. Both the sky and ground were a hazy shade of dingy gray, making it difficult to determine where one began and the other ended. The smoke from their two cigarettes seemed to linger around somewhere in between, swirling up into the air while, at the same time, blending in against the frozen ground. The whole world seemed quiet—or dead—and if it weren't for the cars whizzing past on the main street in front of them, Steve would have wondered if they were the only two people alive.

Steve shivered and surveyed the area as he took another drag from his cigarette. He and Soda were hanging out against the closed up concession stand by the school's football field. As soon as the weather warmed up—in a couple more months—this area would be swimming with other greasers, Eastsiders like themselves. There would be laughter and roughhousing and probably threats from the local fuzz every now and again. There would be more action then, too. Things always picked up in Tulsa when the weather got warmer.

Steve sat back on his heels and looked over at Soda who had slunk down next to him. He had a strange look in his eye. The Curtis brothers always seemed like they were thinking about something, but lately they were more preoccupied than usual. Steve guessed they had good reason to be …

"So, why'd you make me come out here with you anyway?" Steve asked. "Besides the fact that I'm your best friend, of course."

Soda looked over at him. "No real reason. I just had to get out of there, you know?" he asked, motioning across the student parking lot and toward the big, brick school building that stood just beyond it. "I just don't feel like sitting in class all day anymore. No action. Not that there's any action out here right about now, but … I just can't stay cooped up in there for six hours a day."

Steve nodded. "Yeah. School just ain't our thing, Sodapop."

Soda smiled and pressed his cigarette to his lips. He inhaled, holding the warm smoke in his lungs for a moment and then pitched the smoldering butt toward a small drift of snow that had been created by the wind. Exhaling, Soda sighed. "I guess … It's just … Life is short, man. I see that now, and I don't think it's worth it for me to stay in school no more."

"'Course it is," Steve mumbled, eyeing Soda seriously.

Soda shook his head. "Nah … I don't think so. Not for me. I ain't passin' anything worthwhile anyhow. You, at least, are good in math and stuff. The only thing I even enjoy anymore is gym class. Shop is okay, but Mr. Peterman won't let us do any real work on the cars. It just ain't the same as being at the DX and actually _doing_ it."

Steve nodded, he agreed with that last part, at least. "So what're you saying?"

"I think I might drop out … You know, ask George if I can work full time down at the DX instead. He's always saying how you an' me are the best thing that's happened to that station. How we're bringing in business like never before. Maybe I could get a jump on things during the day, and you could work evenings like you usually do. I don't know … It just sounds crazy enough to work out."

Soda chuckled slightly and looked at Steve quizzically, waiting for some sort of confirmation.

"Do you got another smoke?" Steve replied, looking down at the concrete as he crushed what was left of his previous cigarette. He couldn't believe what Sodapop was actually considering.

Soda looked disappointed, his mouth slowly curving into a frown.

"Look, I ain't one to give advice," Steve began, noticing the frustrated expression on his friend's face. "I don't know enough about what you're contemplatin' to tell you what to do."

"I ain't askin' for you to lay it all out for me," Soda replied sternly, the warm and friendly tone leaving his voice for a moment. "I'm just runnin' an idea by a friend. That's all. I ain't expecting anything."

Steve looked up at the clouded sky and closed his eyes. "I just don't think you'd be helping anyone by quitting … Especially yourself," he replied without looking at Soda. "I know you think the extra money would be helpful, but maybe it wouldn't be worth it in the long run …"

Steve couldn't help but think of his best friend, stuck in Tulsa forever. Sure, he wasn't the smartest kid on the block, but he was charismatic. He could make something of himself if given the chance. He had a charm that even the rich kids didn't have—that even the rich kids couldn't _buy_. Sodapop Curtis could sway anyone into becoming his friend.

"Besides," Steve continued, shaking the thoughts away, "what's Darry say about all this?"

It was Soda's turn to divert his gaze. "He don't know yet," he mumbled almost inaudibly.

Steve laughed to himself. "Of course he doesn't," he said. "You know damn well he won't go for it."

"Maybe he won't have a choice," Soda replied, a sly look in his eye. "We need the money now more than we ever did. And he can't get any decent jobs until the weather warms up again …"

"He just might be desperate enough for it to work, huh?"

Soda smirked. "He just might," he replied with a laugh.

Steve sighed. Same old Sodapop. "Well, just don't drop the bomb on him when I'm around, okay? I ain't itchin' to see his reaction. I can't imagine that he'd let you go through with it without a fight or something."

"Probably not," Soda said. "But I think it's worth a shot."

"If you say so." Steve wasn't convinced. But once Soda had an idea, there was no stopping him. They were both cutting class, sitting outside in the middle of the winter, after all. "I just think you should take the time to really see if that's what you want to do. You've gotta look out for yourself too, you know—not just your brothers."

Soda nodded sullenly. "I know, I know," he mumbled. "When did you get so smart?"

"I've been hangin' around with you, haven't I?"

Soda smiled and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a cigarette and handed it over to Steve. "Still want it?" He asked.

"Sure."

Steve reluctantly pulled one hand out of his jacket pocket and reached out toward Soda, taking the cigarette and transferring it to his lips. "So what's the plan for this weekend? Are we gonna hang out, or what?" he asked, as he brought the flame from his lighter up towards his face.

Soda grimaced. "I can't. Not on Friday anyhow. I promised Sandy I'd take her out to dinner and then to the movie house."

Steve cocked an eyebrow as he puffed to get the smoke going. "Big spender."

Soda shook his head. "You know it ain't like that. Sandy and me usually just bum around the house. I figured I should put in a little effort with Valentine's coming up and all. Hey—did I tell you? She wants me to take her to the school dance. The _dance_! I told her that guys like me don't dance, but she knows I'm lyin' … I'm a sucker for stuff like that."

Steve laughed. "That's what you get for picking up a girl and askin' her to go steady."

"Yeah, yeah. It ain't all bad, though. It's nice to be with a girl for a change … Instead of hangin' around you lousy hoods all the time."

Steve rolled his eyes.

"You don't know what you're missing," Soda replied with a smirk. "Even _Dal_ has a girl for cryin' out loud."

"What Dally's got is a loud-mouthed _broad_ … Sylvia ain't no girl! Not by a long shot!"

Soda laughed in spite of himself. "Yeah, I suppose you're right," he replied.

Their laughter died down and silence crept in between them. Suddenly, Soda turned to look at Steve, a wide grin plastered across his face. "If I didn't just get the best idea …" he began.

"What, like sitting out here in the cold?" Steve asked, smiling warily.

"Better," Soda responded. "Now, Sandy's been talkin' about this friend of hers from Home Economics class. Her name's Evelyn—they call her Evie—and she's real nice. Friendly, cute, giggly … You know, real girly and stuff. Why don't you ask her out so that we can double sometime?"

Steve shook his head, slowly at first and then with greater intensity. "I don't think so …"

"No. Seriously, man. Evie's real nice. You'd like her."

"I don't think so," Steve repeated.

"Aw, come on," Soda whined. "Sandy says she makes a mean chocolate cake."

Steve eyed Soda suspiciously. "I ain't about to be set up on a date by my best friend. How would that look to this Evie chick? I'll bet she wants a real guy, not some dumb thug who lets his friends do the talking for him …"

"Okay, okay. I get it."

"Bullshit," Steve retorted. "I know you'll never let this go."

Soda smiled sheepishly. "Just think about it, will ya?"

"Only if you'll think about finishing out your sophomore year."

Soda frowned again.

"I'm serious," Steve pressed on.

"Well, so am I."

Steve pulled the cigarette from his mouth and calmly blew out a cloud of smoke. He watched it trail out away from him and up toward the cold, gray sky above, and then tossed what was left of the cigarette off to the side. "It looks like it might snow again," he observed.

"Maybe," Soda replied, looking up as well.

Steve pulled himself up and wiped the front and back of his jeans with his hands. What little snow had clung onto him flaked off and gently fell down onto the concrete. "How about we go back inside now?" Steve asked, reaching out a hand. "I don't think I can feel my toes anymore."

Soda nodded, grabbed Steve's hand, and pulled himself to his feet. He brushed his jeans off and looked at Steve. "Sounds okay to me. Do you think shop is over yet?"

As if on cue, the sound of the 1:15 school bell rang out across the cold, still air.

Steve eyed Soda. "We might even make it to the next class on time," he said with a fake smile.

"Oh great," Soda replied sarcastically. "I can't wait for a full period of English Literature. Lord knows _that's_ my ticket out of this town!"

"It beats Geometry."

Soda nodded. "That it does."

"And I bet that Romeo and Juliet stuff would go over real well with Sandy. She might be mistaken and think you a real romantic or something."

"You're right," Soda said with a smirk. "Maybe you ought to switch classes before you ask Evie out. I don't think Geometry impresses a girl."

"And _I_ don't think I'll be asking_ anyone_ out," Steve replied, giving Soda's shoulder a shove so that he nearly toppled over into a parked Mustang.

A wicked smile spread across Soda's lips as he lunged back at Steve. Knowing how his best friend's mind worked by now, Steve easily sidestepped out of the way and watched as Soda skidded past him on the slick ground, his arms thrashing around, hands grasping for anything he could reach.

Steve laughed. "Watch your step there, Pepsi-Cola," he taunted.

Soda grunted as he fought to regain his balance and then stood up stiffly as if nothing had happened. "Shoot, Steve," he said seriously. "We ain't gonna make it to class on time if you keep up these shenanigans. What's a model student like you doing outside of the school buildin' anyhow?"

Steve shook his head in disbelief. "Let's get back inside."

Soda nodded and threw an arm around Steve's shoulders as they crossed the parking lot toward the school. It was a simple gesture, but it let Steve know that Soda wasn't beefed at him for being less than enthusiastic about his future educational goals … And it helped to warm him up a little bit too.

It felt like they had been sitting outside for half the day, when really it had only been an hour or so. But in that hour, Steve could tell that things were changing again ...

That his life was never going to be the same.


	2. And So It Goes

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns the characters you recognize and Billy Joel owns the song "And So It Goes," which serves as my chapter title.

* * *

When the final bell of the day rang, Steve gathered up his books and headed for the back stairwell. Being a sophomore, his locker was on the second floor, down the English department hallway and absolutely as far as it could possibly be from the class he had just exited.

That always seemed to happen, he noticed.

From as far back as Steve could remember, no matter what grade he was in or what class he was taking, he always had to trek across half the damn building just to put his stuff away. It never failed to hold him up day after day, semester after semester, year after year … Keeping him from leaving the school and going home as quickly as possible—not that home was anything to sing about.

As he approached the dimly lit English corridor, Steve lowered his eyes and sulked over to his locker. Although there was a fairly even distribution of upper and lower class kids, the hallway seemed to be buzzing with the exceptionally fortunate, sickeningly elite Westside Socials. Leaning coolly against their lockers, chatting as if they didn't have a care in the world, a couple of the Soc boys eyed Steve suspiciously as he passed. Dressed in their khaki pants with button down shirts and wooly sweaters, they represented everything that Steve hated about the world. They were the straight "A" students, the class presidents, the team captains, and they made it look so damn _easy_. Didn't they have to work at anything? Didn't they have family issues back at home or problems at work? Did they ever catch a bad break like so many of the guys Steve knew?

Probably not.

_It must be great having rich parents_, Steve thought to himself as he casually made his way to his locker at the far end of the hall. He could feel their smug eyes following him—looking down on him as if he was going to pounce at their girls or something. As if he was going to touch each one of them with a dirty hand and spread his East side disease to_ their_ kind. It was ridiculous. For being so smart, they certainly were a bunch of idiots.

Steve threw his locker door open with a bang and shoved the books that he was carrying inside. He pulled out his math notebook and tucked it under his arm as he rummaged around. Finally, finding the worksheet he was looking for, Steve closed the locker and gazed down the hall toward where the group Socs had been standing.

In their place was Tim Shepard, staring gloomily into his locker as he shoved some papers deep inside. Catching Steve's eye, he gave him a nod of acknowledgement and then headed on his way.

The lockers were arranged alphabetically up until senior year. Steve always loved watching that same group Socs on the first day of school each year, when they realized that Tim hadn't dropped out and would be—yet again—smack dab in the middle of their little group. Steve wondered if that was the only reason Tim kept showing up at all—to piss them off. It was something that Dally would have done too, had he not gotten bored with school as a kid and dropped out then.

Steve smiled to himself and headed down the hallway. He rounded the corner toward another row of sophomore lockers and saw Sodapop chatting lazily with Johnny Cade. Johnny was a year younger than they were and was a freshman, so his locker was one floor below. Even so, it was commonplace to find him talking with Soda at the end of any given day. He was a small kid and it would probably be an easy target if it weren't for the rest of the gang—especially Dallas—who always had a constant eye on him.

"Hey, Johnny," Steve greeted once he had joined them. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," Johnny replied quietly. "Just thought I'd stop up here to see what ya'll are doin' this afternoon."

"I already told him that I ain't busy," Soda said, looking at Steve and closing his locker without taking any text books or notebooks out of it.

"Well aren't you the lucky one, Sodapop?" Steve grinned. "Unfortunately, Johnny, tonight's my night to run the station. George is givin' me a trial run. To see if I'm up to the challenge of bein' in charge."

Johnny's expression changed ever so slightly. It was hard to read him sometimes. "That's great … I wish I had a job."

Sodapop laughed and placed a heavy hand on Johnny's shoulder, looking him square in the eye. "No you don't, kid. It just makes the day shorter, that's all."

Steve looked at Soda and wondered how he could be outside talking about dropping out and working full time one minute, and then inside discouraging Johnny from getting a job the next. Maybe he had given it some more thought and decided against it. Steve could only hope.

"You ready?" Steve asked. "Let's get outta here."

Johnny nodded, and the three of them set off down the hallway towards the back stairwell. As they neared the first floor exit doors, they caught a glimpse of Two-Bit Mathews through the small window, having a smoke.

As soon as they pushed through, Two-Bit practically jumped on them.

"There they are!" He announced to no one in particular. A couple of students that had been milling around looked in his direction and then went on their separate ways. "If it ain't my three favorite greasers!"

"Cut it out Two-Bit," Johnny protested, as Two-Bit attempted to put him in a headlock and ruffle his greased hair.

Two-Bit grinned, draping his arm across Johnny's shoulder instead as he leaned on him for support. "So, who's up for joining me at the Dingo or Jay's or somewhere? It was a dull day so far and I think we should make it a little more interesting …"

"Sorry, Two-Bit," Soda replied with a shrug. "I promised Darry I'd swing by the junior high and walk home with Pony. You know how he's been worryin' lately …"

The smile slightly faded from Two-Bit's face and he nodded. "Yeah, I know …" he replied, turning his attention over to Steve. "What about you?" he asked hopefully.

"I can't tonight. I'm workin' remember?" Steve sighed. "Maybe tomorrow or something, though." He shot a look in Sodapop's direction and then smirked. "Soda's spendin' all his free time with Sandy, but my weekend is open. No girl's gonna keep me from enjoyin' myself."

Two-Bit glanced quickly from Soda and then back to Steve. "That ain't the way I heard it," he said. "Soda's been tellin' me that you were thinkin' of asking Miss Evelyn Roberts out one of these days."

Steve glared at Soda and then turned back to Two-Bit. "Glory, Two-Bit!" he exclaimed with a shake of the head. "You should know by now that Soda's full of more shit than a cow pasture …"

Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow and looked over at Soda. "You ain't gonna take that, are you?" he asked, egging Soda on. He knew as well as anyone that Soda was a sucker for a fight—friendly or otherwise.

Soda smiled brightly. "Aw, he don't mean it," he replied. "And besides, I don't got much time. I gotta make it to Ponyboy before too long or Darry'll have my hide. I'll see ya'll later on. And Steve … Just think about it, huh?"

Steve shook his head in disbelief. Sometimes Soda could be so difficult. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered.

Soda turned and headed down the walkway towards the street. It wasn't as cold as it had been earlier in the afternoon, but it certainly wasn't a comfortable day for walking. If only one of them had had a car that started up on a consistent basis. Cars, especially beaters like theirs, were just more temperamental in the winter.

"What are you doing tonight, Johnny?" Two-Bit turned his attention back to the smaller boy.

Johnny shrugged. "Nothing, I guess."

"Good, then you an' me can get some Cokes and some fries or something … And get indoors to warm up a little. I'm gettin' chilly just standing around here. You sure you can't hang with us for just a little while, Steve?"

Steve shook his head. "Nope, not today," he replied. "But maybe Friday, like I said. I really ain't doing nothing, so keep it open, okay?"

Two-Bit nodded as he took a drag from his cigarette. "Okay. Sounds good to me. Maybe we can get Dallas to come with us too. He's been in a bad mood these last couple of days since he found out that Sylvia was cheatin' on him."

Despite his desire to get out of the cold and get on with his day, Steve was intrigued. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," Two-Bit pressed on. "Found her with one of the guys from the River Kings—you know how they operate. Dumb broad forgot that old Dal hasn't been in school since the ripe old age of ten, and she was hangin' around with the guy at The Dingo right smack in the middle of the day. I wish that I had been there to see it. I'm sure it was a sight to behold."

Steve nodded. "I'll bet it was … Now do you see why I ain't botherin' with askin' that friend of Sandy's out? It ain't worth it. Maybe now Dallas will wise up."

Two-Bit laughed. "Ain't no one wiser than Dallas."

Steve noticed Johnny perk up a little at that. The mention of Dallas Winston seemed to have an effect on the poor kid. Sometimes Steve couldn't tell if Johnny was afraid of Dally or if it was something else entirely. Out of the gang, Dally was definitely the roughest around the edges. He didn't give a shit about what anyone thought about him, and that was something that Steve had to respect.

"Well, I'll see you boys later on," Steve said.

"Okay, will do," Two-Bit called out.

"Bye," Johnny piped up.

Steve turned and walked across the school grounds, which were dusted with a thin layer of crunchy snow. He flipped up the collar on his jacket to give his neck and ears a little relief from the cold winter air and headed toward home.

Will Roger's High School was situated right between the unofficial East and West boundary lines. It was in a somewhat neutral part of town, where the middle class kids came from, and it was close to the downtown area of Tulsa where most of the shops and restaurants were. From the school, it was about a ten minute walk to the East side. From there, it was another five or ten until Steve reached his front door step.

Walking at a brisk pace to get out of the cold, Steve ended up at his house in just under twenty minutes. He walked across the front lawn, which was brown and dead and iced over, and then up the driveway. He eyed his car which was parked in front of the decrepit garage. He wondered if he'd be able to get it started so that he wouldn't have to walk to work. It was always a pain when the weather cooled down for the winter.

He pulled open the screen door at the side entrance of the house and then pushed through the wooden interior door. It wasn't ever locked because the old man was usually always at home, and besides there was nothing worth stealing anyway. Steve poked his head through the doorway and peered into the kitchen. All was quiet, just the way he liked it.

Quietly, the closed both doors behind him and made his way through the tiny kitchen. He set the math notebook that he had been carrying down on the table and then slowly made his way towards the living room.

The TV was on and he could make out the shape of his dad, passed out on the couch in the dimly lit room. The air smelled like beer and cigarettes and there were bottles littered across the floor. Steve shook his head, feeling anger bubbling up inside of him. Why did his dad have to be such an asshole? Why couldn't he just leave for good or be out working like other, normal, greaser fathers?

Steve balled his hands into fists to relieve some of the tension he was feeling and made his way toward his bedroom. He pulled off his jeans jacket, tossing it onto his unmade bed, and then grabbed his DX uniform shirt from his closet. He put it on over the T-shirt he was wearing and then grabbed his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder. Next, he headed into the bathroom and checked out his appearance in the small mirror that hung over the sink. He looked back at his tired reflection and then cocked his head, getting a better view of his hair. The wind had ruffled it up a bit, so he pulled a comb out if his back pocket and did his best to fix it. Satisfied, he left the bathroom and wandered back down the hall.

"Steven?"

He stopped for a moment to listen.

"Steven?"

It was his mother.

Steve walked toward his parents' bedroom—though it was really just his mother's now because his father never used it anymore—and leaned against the door frame. His mom was lying in bed with the covers pulled up to her chest. She looked tired and confused and he couldn't tell if it was because she had just woken up, or because today was a bad one.

"What do you need, mom?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Steven?" She asked again. She always seemed a little out of it, nowadays. Steve remembered when she had been as sharp as a tack, but those days were a distant memory.

"Yes, mom?" he asked again.

"I think it's about time for my medication, and I don't feel like I can get out of bed today. I tried to get a drink of water and go to the bathroom earlier, but I almost fell down …"

She looked sad, defeated. Steve hated seeing her like this. She wasn't even fifty yet and she acted like an old woman. He nodded. "I'll grab your pills for you, mom. Do you need anything else while I'm at home? I've got to work tonight, remember? I told you yesterday afternoon how the boss is putting me in charge for the night."

She looked puzzled. "I … I … Of course I remember, Honey," she lied. Her memory had been going little by little as the months dragged on. It seemed that she could only recall things that happened all the time or things from a long time ago. Steve did his best not to notice. Sometimes it was easier to pretend …

Steve walked back to the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. He pulled out two bottles of pills and poured out the correct dosage from each one. After quietly grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen, he returned to the bedroom and walked over to the side of the bed where his mother was. He sat on the edge and placed the glass on the bedside table. "Here you go," he said, holding out the pills in his hand. "Do you want me to help you sit up?"

His mom smiled as she reached out to him. Steve grabbed her close to the shoulder and helped to pull her up. She was a small woman, so it was easy. She leaned against the headboard and held out her hand. Steve dropped the pills in her open palm and then handed her the glass of water.

He watched as she swallowed the pills, one by one. "Better?" he asked.

She handed the glass back to him. "For now, I suppose," she replied. "Thank you, Steven."

Steve forced a smile. "You're welcome," he said. "I've gotta run, but if you need anything else, dad's sleeping on the couch. He should be able to hear you if you holler loud enough."

Steve's mom nodded and scooted back down under the covers. "Okay," she replied. "Have a good night at work … Will Sodapop be there too?"

"No, not tonight."

"Oh, well," his mom hesitated for a moment as if she was trying hard to remember something. "If you see him, tell him to tell his mother that I said hello. I'd really like to get together with her again, but …"

"It's okay, mom," Steve cut her off. "I'm sure she understands how things are. Now, why don't you go back to sleep? You look pretty tired."

Steve left the room and pulled the door closed behind him. He closed his eyes tightly and leaned against the wall, clenching his hands into fists again. He wanted to scream, to yell obscenities at the top of his voice, but all that would do was wake the old man—and nothing good ever came of that.

Why the _hell _did his life have to be so God damned difficult?


	3. Crumblin' Down

Disclaimer: _The Outsiders_ belong to S.E. Hinton and not to me. Much to my husband's chagrin, I just pretend that they are mine. The song standing in as a chapter title, "Crumblin' Down" belongs to John "Cougar" Mellencamp.

* * *

Steve walked to the DX in a huff.

At least he'd get a little distance at work …

At least he'd be able to forget about his problems and do something that mattered—fix cars.

As soon as he stepped through the door into the station's small office area, he could feel his worries slowly dissipating. "George!" He called out as the bells that hung from the top of the door clattered against each other, marking his arrival. "George! Where are ya?"

George, a small, stout man with graying hair wandered in from the garage, wiping his large hands with an already greasy rag. "Ah, good. You're here," he sighed, patting Steve on the shoulder as he passed him. "The missus is expecting me for dinner tonight. She's mighty pleased that I've finally found someone I trust to run this place."

Steve smiled and sat down in one of the chairs they had set up for waiting customers, resting his head back against the wall. "I'm mighty pleased you trust me too," he replied. "I know I don't look the part of a responsible youth."

George laughed. "Well, Steve, you've earned it. I'm just lucky that you're a lot like me at sixteen … I know this town don't have many good opportunities for boys like you. I'm just glad that I can help _you_ out—keep you out of trouble," he said with a wink.

Steve nodded. He knew darn well that he had gotten into his share—and then some.

"Well, then," George began, his green eyes shifting to the clock that hung on the wall. "It's almost four thirty and I need to make a couple stops on my way… Told the wife I'd be back by five …" He muttered to himself. "So I better get outta here."

George walked behind the desk where the cash register sat, placed the rag on the counter, and grabbed his jacket and hat. He stood motionless, lost in his thoughts for a minute, as he went through what had been done already and what he still needed to do. "The daily log is back in the garage," he began, speaking to himself at first and then looking over at Steve. "There's only one car back there now … It needs a new alternator, which I've left for you. Owner's gonna pick it up first thing tomorrow. After that, tidy up a bit or something. Sorry business isn't booming like usual, it _is_ the middle of the winter." He paused again, his eyes scanning the little office and then landing on Steve. "Now, if you run into any problems—anything at all—you give me a call. Okay?" he asked.

It was obvious that he hadn't ever left the station alone.

And alone with a greasy kid at that.

"I will," Steve said, standing up to see George to the door. "I'll give you the full report on Sunday."

"Good man," George replied, placing a large hand on Steve's shoulder again. "Have a good night, son."

Steve held the door open and watched as George sauntered to his car. "I will."

George smiled as he climbed in through the driver's side and pulled the door closed behind him. After a moment, the engine roared to life and he gave Steve a little wave through the foggy window.

Steve watched as the car pulled out of the station, past the four gas pumps, and then onto the dead street outside. Stepping back into the warmth of the DX station, Steve let the door swing shut behind him. He walked around behind the counter where the register sat and leaned forward on his elbows, resting his chin in his hands. So it was just him. _He_ was finally in charge. It was almost enough to take his mind off of his home life and what his mother had said earlier that afternoon.

Steve scanned the small office area for a moment and then turned his attention to the gray world outside that mimicked his sentiments. Although it wasn't quite five o' clock yet, the sun had already begun its decline behind the heavy blanket of clouds. In another hour its light would be gone beneath the horizon and the snowy gray haze would give way to an inky black, starless night.

Steve straightened himself up and grabbed George's rag from the counter, stuffing it into his back pocket. He headed through the door that led to the garage and noticed the single car that George had mentioned—a '55 Chevy, candy apple red.

_It's a damn shame that something's wrong with her_, Steve thought to himself as he approached the Chevy. Although he loved what he did, there was just something about seeing a car like that—a car that should be out on the road—sitting in the silence of the DX garage that bothered him. The car may have been over ten years old, but Steve could tell that she was still in great shape, despite the faulty alternator. He'd give just about anything for a car like that—one that still looked good and actually ran.

In some ways, cars like this were better than the greasy girls at school.

Even though he worked at the DX too, Sodapop just didn't understand. He didn't have the same passion, the same drive to fix something as complex as a car engine. He liked being at the DX because he thrived on dealing with the people—pumping gas, selling Pepsi behind the counter, taking keys from customers as they left their cars in Steve's (and George's) capable hands. Soda just couldn't appreciate the beauty of a shiny, well-made vehicle. He couldn't see that a car didn't talk back to you, didn't get angry when you spent too much time with your friends or break your heart when some better guy came along …

Steve sighed and headed toward the work bench and row of shelves that held the station's supply of stocked parts. The new alternator, still in its box, was sitting on the bench next to the daily log where George kept track of the various jobs and how much time they took to complete. Steve looked over the Chevy's particular problem in the log—_trouble starting/doesn't kick over_, _makes a_ _clicking sound when turning the key in the ignition_—scrawled in George's scratchy handwriting.

Steve nodded to himself. _Sounds like an alternator problem, all right_, he thought. _That or maybe even the battery_. He grabbed the box and a set of wrenches from the bench as he made his way over to the car. He fiddled around, pulling the hood up and then leaned inside to survey the car's engine.

Satisfied with his plan of attack, Steve set to work removing the old alternator and installing the new one. As he worked in silence, his mind began to wander …

It wasn't anything new for Steve. The DX was the one place where he could clear his head enough to really think about things. To really and truly reflect on everything that was happening at any given time.

Sometimes he'd think about school—his classes, the fall football games, the girls, the rivalry with the Socs—or the guys from the gang and how different it would be for everyone once he got out of Tulsa.

Sometimes he'd just think about cars—those he was working on, ones he saw out on the road, or even how to lift hub caps off of a particular make and model.

Today—even though he tried his hardest to fight it—his mind wandered back toward his mother, sitting quietly in bed, too tired and dizzy to do anything else …

From what he had learned over the years, Steve knew that his mother, Agnes Morris, had been born and raised in Tulsa. Growing up, she liked horses and little kids, but because her family had been middle class and couldn't afford any horses of their own, she ended up turning her attention to kids instead. In the summers during high school, she helped out in the children's ward of the local hospital and eventually went away to college on a partial scholarship so that she could become a school teacher. She was smart and pretty, and just about everybody liked her, but she was focused too, so she didn't have much time for boyfriends.

After graduation she returned to Tulsa and was offered a job at the local elementary school. She took it, and it was there that she met Franklin "Frank" Randle.

Ten years her senior, cocky, and cunning, Frank was also a Tulsa native. He, however, had never left the city and, instead, he made his way by working random jobs—cleaning office buildings one day and bussing tables the next. Eventually, he landed a steady position as a janitor at the school Agnes taught at and worked his way up, first becoming head of the janitorial staff and then gaining charge over maintaining the grounds of the elementary school and eventually the high school.

A real catch—or so his mother had always said—the pair dated for a short while, and then married when Agnes was twenty-four.

Later that year, Steven Franklin Randle was born.

Unable to remember much of his life before age five, Steve thought back to his very first day of kindergarten. He remembered being both scared and excited, but mostly excited because his mother always spoke so highly of going to school. They had walked there together, hand in hand, and she had spoke to him about the importance of being good and paying close attention to everything his teacher said. She was proud of him, he knew, because the smile never left her face that day. Even as she left him in his first classroom with the other kids his age, she was beaming, waving to him as she headed out into the hall and back home until it was time to pick him up again. She was healthy then—healthy and happy—and it seemed like he had the normal family. He wasn't very observant at five and, little did he know, things weren't as they seemed.

Steve was about ten when it happened. He had just gotten home from school—his mom allowed him to walk by himself now—and he met her in the kitchen where she was getting dinner ready for his dad so that he'd have a warm meal when he arrived home. Sitting at the kitchen table, working on some math problems, Steve looked up to find his mother falling to the floor. He had been scared—terrified—so he ran to the neighbor's house to get help. When he returned, his mom was awake and alert, maybe even a little confused, so they waited for his dad before they all headed for the hospital.

Unable to determine what was wrong at the time, the doctor ordered for check-ups every other month and a strict diet of healthy foods. It wasn't until years later that they had a name for what had been ailing her. "MS" the doctor had called it—or multiple sclerosis.

Steve shook the memory away as he stepped back from the Chevy's opened hood. Putting a greasy hand to his face and sighing heavily, he wandered back toward the office area and picked up the phone.

He entered the digits by heart, the rotary dial spinning and clicking back to zero with the input of each new number. He listened impatiently as the ringing began—one, then two, three, almost four times—then a familiar voice picked up.

"Hello?"

It was Ponyboy.

"Hey Pony, is Soda around?" Steve asked.

The three Curtis brothers were almost always at home in the evenings nowadays. Darry had been keeping a tight grip on them since their folks died. While he didn't blame him, Steve couldn't help but think that Darry needed to loosen up a little bit. He'd turn into an old man in under a year if he kept this up.

"Yeah, hold on a second. Okay?" Ponyboy replied. There was something in his voice that Steve didn't like. He got the strange impression that Ponyboy didn't like him. He figured that it was because Pony was jealous of his friendship with Sodapop—like he had big plans to take Soda away or something. Steve knew quite well that the two were close—heck, sometimes Soda wouldn't shut up about his little brother—but he could never quite figure out what was behind Ponyboy's changing attitudes towards him. Soda attributed it to the hormones of a teenager. Steve wasn't totally convinced.

"Hey, Steve!" came Soda's cheerful voice on the other end of the line, breaking him out of his thoughts. "What's goin' on? Have you decided to ask Evie out after all, and you're tellin' me first?"

Steve rolled his eyes and his friend's persistence. "No, I haven't decided that," he muttered. "Will you just drop it already?"

Sometimes Sodapop Curtis was impossible.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry," Soda replied. "So what _is_ goin' on?"

"Not much … I'm at the DX tryin' to get some work done," Steve began, delaying the inevitable.

It all became so much more real if he talked about it—acknowledged what he knew to be true.

"But, that's not why I'm callin'," he continued. "It's about my mom … Do you think you could come down here for the end of my shift? You know, to talk?"

There was a pause on the other end. Steve knew that Soda was thinking it over, trying to figure out the best way to convince Darry to let him out of the house without spilling the beans. None of the other guys knew the extent of Mrs. Randle's illness, and Steve didn't intend on having them find out. It was one thing to have an old man that didn't appreciate you and belted you every now and then—both Johnny and Dally could identify with that—but it was another thing altogether to have a mother that didn't know where she was half of the time, and not because she was drunk.

"Hold on, let me check," Soda finally responded. There was a soft click as he placed the phone down, indicating that he had wandered off to find Darry.

Steve looked out the window at the dark clouds swirling overhead. It looked like it might snow again, and that would do nothing to help his chances of having Darry let Sodapop out of the house. He was about to give up hope, figuring that Soda had been gone too long for the news to be good, when his friend returned to the line.

"Darry's not thrilled, but I told him it's important, so he's letting me come by. You can drop me off back here when you're done, right?"

"That's great," Steve said, genuinely happy to have the company and feeling as if a small weight had been lifted. Soda was the best listener he knew and he always seemed to understand. "But I don't have my car with me. It wouldn't start up after school either."

"Oh," Soda sounded let down. "It's just so damn cold out there …"

"The DX isn't that far. Run if you have to."

Soda chuckled slightly. "Ponyboy's the track star … But I'll do what I can. Maybe, ten minutes?"

"Okay, I'll keep an eye out for you then."

"Good. And I expect some hot chocolate or somethin' when I get there."

Steve sighed. "How about a Pepsi? I know we got those."

Soda chuckled again. "All right, man. I'm on my way," he said. "Just after I find my other shoe …"

"See you soon." Steve hung up the receiver and looked out into the darkness. Knowing Soda the way he did, it would be at least twenty minutes before he strolled through the door.

Half an hour later, Soda came plowing into the office.

"Lord almighty it's cold out there!" he exclaimed, pulling his hands from his jacket pockets and rubbing them together.

"Didn't bother you so much this afternoon," Steve said from across the room, planted comfortably in one of the customer chairs. He didn't feel much like working anymore, and besides, he had just about fixed the '55 Chevy already.

"The sun was out so it was warmer then," Soda explained with a shrug as he wandered to the large cooler that was behind the register and pulled a bottle of Pepsi from it.

Steve just shook his head in disbelief. The day was as gray as any and the sun certainly hadn't made an appearance.

"So, what's goin' on with your mom?" Soda asked, cutting to the chase, as he sat down in the chair next to Steve. Although many people thought that Sodapop Curtis had his head in the clouds half of the time, he knew the score. "Is she gettin' worse?"

Steve looked at his friend. It almost seemed unfair for him to whine to Soda about his mom being sick. At least he still had a mom. Soda wasn't so lucky. "I don't know if worse would be the word. She certainly ain't better, though."

Soda nodded silently as he sipped his pop.

"She asked about your mom again," Steve said quietly, watching Soda's usually happy face fall slightly. "She keeps askin' me to say hello for her and that she's sorry she hasn't been around much. I mean, I've told her that your mom died a couple of times now and it doesn't do any good. She just plain forgets or chooses not to remember it."

Soda bit at his bottom lip and shifted in his seat, thinking. "Is she takin' her medication and stuff?"

"Yeah, I give it to her each morning and then again when I get home from school if she hasn't gotten it herself."

"So, your dad …" Soda began, knowing that just the mention of Frank Randle was a sore spot for Steve.

"He doesn't give a shit," Steve said darkly. "You know how he is. He barely puts in any time at work and then comes home and sits all day—drinkin' and smokin' and watchin' the TV. He don't care that mom's sitting in the back bedroom, all tired and confused. He don't give a damn about either of us."

Soda looked down at the floor and then over at Steve. "At least she's got you," he said simply.

Steve leaned back against the wall behind him and looked up at the ceiling tiles. "But that ain't enough," he protested. "If Frank doesn't want a family he should just get the hell out. He doesn't do anything for us anyway. It's my paycheck that's payin' for most of the bills."

Soda nodded. "I know it ain't fair, Steve," he replied. "But you know you've got all us guys. We're your family too, and we're happy to have ya."

Steve looked over at Sodapop. "Yeah … But it just ain't the same."

Soda was quiet as he sipped from his Pepsi. "I know," he said sullenly.

Steve made a face. He knew that Sodapop was thinking about his own splintered family and he felt a little bit guilty for even mentioning his personal problems. "Look, Soda, thanks for coming out here. I don't mean to bring you down with me and get you upset too …"

Soda smiled slightly. "That's all right," he replied. "You're my best pal … Like the brother I never had, even."

Steve smiled too. "You have two brothers …" he said, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but not any sixteen-year-old ones."

Steve sighed. Soda was a strange kid. "Hey," he began, deciding it best to just change the subject and try to forget about his mom. "You wanna see the car I worked on tonight? She's a real beaut."

"Sure," Soda replied. "What else is there to do around here? I reckon you're just about done for the night."

Steve shrugged. "Just gotta start her up. Make sure it was the alternator and not the battery."

Soda nodded as they both stood from their chairs and headed into the garage.

"Golly!" Soda exclaimed as he approached the shiny, red car. "You ain't lyin'. What I wouldn't do to get a car like that."

Steve smiled as he pulled the car's key from his shirt pocket and slid into the driver's seat. He rolled down the window and Soda leaned against the frame, his head half inside the car, checking out the interior. "Yeah, she's definitely all right," Steve replied. "Now for the moment of truth …"

Steve put the key in the ignition and held his breath in his lungs as he turned it. The car's engine turned over, its loud purr reverberating off of the garage walls. If only other things in his life were this easy to fix.

"Sounds good," Soda commented. "Purrin' like a kitten. Looks like your job here is done."

Steve nodded, turning the engine off, but remaining behind the wheel. He didn't much feel like going home just yet.

Soda straightened up, backing away from the car, and stretched. Steve smirked at the sight of him—you would have thought that he had been cooped up in a little box, not sitting around the DX. "I take it you're ready to go," Steve said dryly.

Soda grinned. "I guess so," he replied with a shrug. "You wanna come over? I bet Darry's got some leftovers from dinner."

Steve smiled. It was almost as if Soda had read his mind. "Okay."

Steve climbed out of the Chevy and closed the door lightly. He returned the key to its drawer behind the register and surveyed the station. His first night alone. How had he done? Would George be pleased and allow him to run things again sometime soon? He hoped so.

"After you, Sodapop," Steve said, holding the outside door open for his friend.

Was he forgetting anything? The lights were off, the garage and office were both in order, the register was locked, the door would be too as soon as closed it … Nope. He had done it all.

"Come on, man! I'm freezing!" Soda shouted, breaking Steve from his mental checklist. "Are you comin' or what?"

"I'm comin'!" Steve yelled back as he pulled the door closed behind him and trotted over to join Sodapop outside under the moonless, starless sky.


End file.
